"Yeah," Libby says after a moment, because now she recognizes the shape--her memory isn't eidetic, but it's close, rapid and accurate and cross-referencing instantly. Mjolnir, Thor's hammer. A symbol of the god and also of protection, and Libby knows exactly where it belongs. "Yeah, I can do that. Take your shirt off."

She goes to help him out of it, deft and for once not thinking or worrying about implications, then she picks up her computer and flits her fingers deftly through the interface. (This will be the first thing to go, the poetry of her hands, but for now they are sure and swift and subtle. It's almost too fast to make out what she does, calling and banishing files and folders and programs and flickers of raw code.) A blue glow falls on his shield arm, and she switches the computer to her left hand, keys in something that produces a flash and locks it--now no matter how the projector shakes it adjusts to keep the image exactly where it is.

She's made a lot of upgrades since she got here. That's nothing to brag about, to her mind. It's like saying she bothered to eat. She dips a stylus in the ink pool and touches the top of tbe hammer, thoughtful. It'll go right on the swell of where his arm meets his shoulder. Appropriate. The arm that offers protection, protected.

"Is this right?" She glances at him--he said she could pick, but it's his tattoo.

A pause, and she adds, apropos of nothing (except--): "You're good at that. Drawing. I didn't know."